SKINNY LOVE
by emblah01
Summary: Annabeth is a ballet dancer and her only goal is to become the best of the best. Not your typical dancer one shot; less focused on the dance aspect. Inspired by Skinny Love by Birdy. ANGST! Rated T for self-harm, eating disorders and angst. One shot. Please review!


_**In this, Annabeth is an aspiring ballerina, about sixteen/seventeen. She is most definitely OOC, I do know this. This is my take on the life of some anorexic dancers.**_

_**This is my attempt at a darker, angsty-er angle.**_

_**Also, I highly suggest listening to 'Skinny Love' by Birdy when reading this. It's what this was inspired by.**_

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_Skinny Love_

_by emblah01_

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She wraps her arms around her bony self, her ribs digging into her skinny arms.

She can count them, all of them. They stick out like sores on her pale, skinny figure. Her ribs are covered by too-tightly stretched skin; pale and unhealthy looking. But no one does anything about it.

She stares at her naked figure, pinching at the stretched skin. She licks her pale pink, cracked lips; her washed out, deadened grey eyes staring back at her in the mirror propped up on the wall, looking to wide for her face.

She reaches behind her, the familiar silky feeling of her tights enclosed in her cold, stiff fingers. She pulls on her ripped, almost-white tights, the familiarity washing over her, comforting her. The waistband ends just under her ribs, digging into what little fat she has on her body.

She pokes and prods at the skin overlapping the edge of the waistband, blinking back tears.

_(failure)_

Her hands shake as she holds her leotard, slipping her bloody, bruised and broken feet into the foot holes. It hangs off of her body like a rag, the black fabric similar a loose extra layer of skin.

She hates how she looks in a leotard. She hates it with passion. The scared, tiny girl isn't whom she sees in the mirror_._ But it is familiar, and familiar is comforting to her, in her own odd, insane way.

_(hideous, ugly, stupid, fat, waste of space)_

She runs her hands through her thinning white hair, combing it back into a hair elastic. She wraps the long trail of hair that had long since lost its healthy, innocent curl around the elastic, securing it with a bun net and pinning it in place. She places a pair of pearl earrings into her ears, smiling slightly at the precious gems.

She grabs a pair of pointe shoes from her bag, the plastic bag crinkling in her hands. She pulls the pink satin shoes out of her bag. The satin on the toes of her shoes is nearly completely worn away, leaving a rough wooden texture behind.

She slips her feet into the shoes, tying the waxed ribbons around her bony, tight-clad ankles, tucking the ends in like she was taught when she was twelve.

She winces internally as she remembers unwillingly the sharp sting of the ruler beating her body into a ballerina's elegant grace. She remembers Mme's disapproving face, her pinched, wrinkled features curling back in disgust at her technique and posture. This hurts more than the ruler.

_(disappointment)_

She slips on a pair of fuzzy, brown socks over her shoes. They pinch at her toes, the blisters aching and rubbing against the wooden toe of the shoe. Under the layers of wood, satin and tights, her toenails are purple in colour, red sores and blisters decorating her feet from hours of practice.

_(faults)_

She wraps a silky black skirt around her waist. The chiffon feels smooth on her dry, cracked fingers, but rough at the same time. She carefully ties a droopy bow and positions it on her hip bone, which brushes against the black fabric of her uniform.

Experimentally, she uses her dresser to support her as she balances on pointe, shuffling and slipping a little on the wood floor of her bedroom, due to the fuzzy socks protecting her shoes.

_(stupid)_

She knows it is neither safe nor smart, but she pushes herself and turns on one foot, her other foot resting just under her kneecap. Her arms are poised perfectly, rounded in front of her ribs cage. Her skirt flows away from her body, creating a beautiful effect. She turns three times before losing her balance and falling backwards onto her nightstand.

She gasps in pain. The sharp corner of the antique furniture cuts into her spin, assuring her she'll have a bruise there. The wood is scratching and digging away at her skin. Her elbow rams into the side of her bed and she winces again, but brushes it off. She picks herself off of the floor and doubles over immediately.

_(coward)_

A sharp, aching pain shoots up from her lower back into her neck. She can't move; it feels like a bullet is being shot into her back from close range.

White lights flash in her vision, like a warning signal, as she sits there in a crumpled heap of brittle bone and skin.

_(can't even dance)_

She feels tears prickle from behind her eyelids. Red and blue dance in the blackness behind her closed eyes. A single tear rolls down her pointed nose and falls onto her ballet pink tights, dotting the fabric.

Slowly, she adjusts herself, wincing and biting down hard onto her lip, so she is sitting against the bed, her spin and arm aching.

She grabs a pocket knife from her nightstand drawer. She presses the cold metal against the inside of her wrist and carves in one letter at a time… _SKINNY LOVE__._

The blood drips onto the black fabric of her uniform, blending in perfectly. She presses her hand onto the cuts. When she pulls away, her palm is reddened and wet.

She just wishes someone would care.

_(pathetic)_

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_**Thank you for reading.**_

_**Review and tell me what you think.**_

_**-Lou**_


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